St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1887-12-25
ously before; and if dog ever did such a
thing, like the ''old man" of the plays,
he surely said:
"God bless you, my children!"

Ooo DlCeo yOl, MY Cl1ulcu.
III.
"Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!'' up and down
the West side by-streets of Chicago, in
the storm of that merry Christmas day.
''Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!"
Surely the tinkling chimed with
Christmas bells and Christmas cheer;
but if you had once seen the tinker, all
the tinkling of his silver bells could
never have assured you that Christmas
had come into his heart.
What bent, thin body it was! How
it leaned far forward as if to ease the
hard load a trifie, and to break the force
of the pelting snow! How hungry and
wan and pinched the man looked!
''Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle!' up and down
the West Side by-Street of Chicago.
The snow comes faster and faster.
What care those within? Song and
laughter reaches the tinker from the
meanest homes.
Resting in a little court somewhat
protected from the storm, group of
bows surround him, and he grinds their
skates. They chatter about some Gyp-
sizes having glorious old time at some
house near by. The wheel never stops
its buzZing, and the sparks fly brightly,
but the tinker's eyes brighten more
swiftly than the runners of the skates.
Away rush the boys, with whOop and
hurrah. The tinker is all alone. He
swings his wheel upon his tired Shout
ders, glides along the little court, and,
reaching an alley, intently regards a
well-wrapped, brown-faced lad seated
in farm wagon, holding a splendid
team, wgich has grown FESTIVE under
the storm.
All is quiet for moment. Then the
notes of violin are heard from the
house of which the boys had prattled.
When it ceases there is a general chorus
of laughter, and the name of ''JOe"
reaches the tinker's ear. Then follows
a hearty, bOiSterous volce-a thousand
recollectiOns thrOng the wanderers
brain-which rOarS out an old Yorkshire
Gypsy ballad:
"The night ha' come, the stars are out,
The camp-fres twinkle i the hedge,
But, sure as I'm Gypsy lout,
If Boobies sneak this camp about
The stones will rattle from the hedge,
And heads will break, my word pledged
My word pledge; my word pledge"
Now how needless the tinker to the
pelting storm as he listens!
Suddenly the melody of some song is
given prelude on the violin; and now a
vOice-a maiden's vOice-iS heard.
Has the Outcast heard this voice be-
fore? Are the thrOstles singing again
to him, and does he once more listen to
the murmers of the Wharfe as it softly
flows outward to the sea?
The voice rises and falls In sweet
cadences so blended with the tones of
the violin that the words fail him; but
clear and strong and tender, high above
the instrument and the wild staccatO of
the storm, came the words of the last
line:
"Save the sweetest kiss for me!''
The old wheel falls from the wander
er's shoulder, as did Pilgrims burden
when the great glory OF the cross shone
upon him; but something comes before
his eyes. chills his being, and for time
all is blank to him. Within there are
CHEEKY ''good-byes" and all the bustling
of departure, and when the tinker rises
from the snOW-cOvered ground he dimly
sees the wagon departing. 1t is filled
with laughing, merry people, and he
sees as through a gathering mist, seated
side by side, the maiden who sang and
the musician who played, while the dog
at which they are all shouting "Joe!
joel" joyouslY barks at the horses
heads.
On speed the departing Gypsies, and,
with a stitled prayer and the pitifnl
-ulLtIId. IdChllC-Oll, 1uiLClIdt
the deSpairing tinker dashes after.
Out through the city's sights and
sounds, past gas-lamps flaming in the
storm, past jingling horse cars filled
with merry, CHEEKY people, past Ginning
sleigh bells drowning registering voices
in their musical holiday cheer, and then
faster, faster, over the Riverside road,
with the moaning cry ever following.
"MiZella, racklie oh, MiZellaW
At last the pretty suburb of Riverside
is reached. Here some Christmas fes-
tivity has drawn crowds in sleighS to
the great hotel.
As the loaded wagon dashes through
the place, in an excess OF Christmas
pelt them with showers of snow balls;
but noticing the pursuer, gather in
groups to discuss and wonder.
Just as the wagon reaches the bridge
it slackenS its speed somewhat, and the
tinker has almost reached it. At this
moment a crowd of sleighs appear from
the other side, and, driven recklessly,
give him no time to escape. He is
dashed against the guard of the bridge
approach. He clutches at the icy iron
with his weakened hands. The en-
bankment is high and precipitous; the
river is up, and, after plunging over the
meath the bridge with roaring sound.
1t grows very dark to the man clinging
so desperately there. For moment he
hears the Ginning of Christmas bells,
and sees in thousand forms the glow
ing of Christmas cheer. He makes no
cry with his lips, but as he falls, falls
into the surging torrent beneath. As
surely as there is God, He hears the
pleading cry:
"Mizella, racklie oh, MiZella!"
The man sinks beneath the seething
waters; but in an instant is shot up
through the drift upon a little island
few yards below the bridge. Desper-
ately clinging to life, he struggles upon
the firm ground Beyond, and toward
the town, at the other end of the bridge,
he sees the towering walls of a huge
mill. The rumble and clatter of its
bolts can be heard; and there are lights
within. 1t seems the choice OF ley
death where he is, or death in the tor
rent. He chooses the latter--fOr there
is hope beyond. Struggling, baffied;
despairing, struggling; he at last
reaches the opposite shore and chambers
up the embankment like frenZied
beast. In moment more he is In the
heart of the little old village of Lyons,
which somehow the Gypsies love; and,
SldSRoIluS dlOllS llhO u VI uihCii man.
even drunken men shrink from him.
What instinct is that which guides
him? Has eternal love an eternal life
and knowledge?
Soon the storm drives him against an
old house, within which are Christmas
merriment and jollity. The yule log
burns brightly within the enormous
fireplace; the walls are festooned with
evergreen as with mistletOe, and bright
ashberries peep out here and there,
as though old England's holly were
here. They are weird, tawny group
within, and what care they for the
storm rafting at the doors and windows
or for curious eyes?
Bat the storm will be needed. 1t
wrepches the old place and talks at the